


Far Away From Home

by bluestonearcher



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Bigotry & Prejudice, Destruction of Vulcan, Dubious Morality, Hurt/Comfort, Klingon, Klingon Culture, Klingon General, Klingon Romance, Love at First Sight, Or Something Close Enough to It, Other, Pon Farr, Qo'noS, Squishy Bits, Vulcan, Vulcan Culture, Vulcan Security Officer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 09:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3523601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestonearcher/pseuds/bluestonearcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vulcan is destroyed. Six billion of lives lost. An estimate of ten thousand rescued from the planet in the last moments. But what of the other Vulcans, far from home? On distant Qo'noS, a small group of delegates and their staff reel in shock from the sudden loss of their planet. One security officer, in particular, is pushed to the very brink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Six Billion Dead

**Author's Note:**

> After recently rewatching a certain awesome movie, I found my mind wondering about all the Vulcans off-planet when their Homeworld was destroyed. Certainly not all would have the extremely strong bond that (I'm sure we all assume) Spock and Kirk have/had/will develop. What would they feel? The pain of their bondmate? Confusion? Nothing at all? The general consensus is, of course, that the bond is in place for many biological reasons, those of protection of one's mate at the forefront of my mind as my fingers began typing without my consent.
> 
> Thus, Vuron's story began to unfold before my eyes. What I'd intended to be a short romp in the mind of a minor staff member of an offworld Ambassador has gotten a tad out of hand... and now he demands his story be shared. Please forgive the slow-ish build. Sometimes he dictates calmly, sometimes he yells, so I can't quite predict how long each chapter will be, let alone how long the finished product.
> 
> Rated Mature for future violence and erm... predictable Vulcan biological complications. Also queer-ish relationships, and varying responses to those issues, because there's plenty enough hetero stuff out there as it is.
> 
> Star Trek is of Gene Roddenberry/Paramount Studios/JJ Abrams. I own none but this work and non-canon characters within. Work published for shared fun, not profit.
> 
> Enjoy!

Vuron's hand hesitated imperceptibility, the tea within the coarse metal goblet sloshing before coming up to his lips. He glanced sideways at his compatriots; he expected the quirked eyebrow in query to his obvious sign of distress. Instead, pain stained each of their faces.

The way the Klingons carried on across the mediation table, none noticed the obvious, dramatic change in the Vulcan ambassador and his staff.

How any could miss....

The screams. Terror. Pain. Fear. Vuron's own lungs burned for want of air. Vertigo threatened to turn his stomach, sucking him down, down, into an endless pit of....

Emptiness.

A void so empty and deep nothing could escape. Not light, nor hope, nor life.

Ambassador Sranak allowed himself a longer blink than normal, picking up his end of the discussion with no pause at all; his sole concession that yes, he too sensed something considerably awry.

Discussion continued well into the night. Bids for mining rights here, travel routes there, compensation if whole or part of an agreement was broken.

Vuron found himself grinding his molars. The emptiness inside ate at his stomach.

“I think we have achieved as much as can be expected, for today,” Sranak declared.

T'Luminareth sighed in relief. The Klingon council members about them stared at her. She pushed herself out of her chair first, nodding a curt bow and excusing herself from the room.

“Hmm... yes. We shall return to our discussions tomorrow.”

“Of course, Chancellor Ka'Tra. Have a pleasant evening.”

The rest of Sranak's staff followed at the proper distance behind the ambassador. If only the last man in the group noticed the clenched hands, the tightened shoulders, all the better.

T'Luminareth, their mining expert, awaited them at the shuttle that would return them to their apartments. She had regained her composure. A tenuous grip, perhaps, but she remained calm while they returned.

Mindful of the Klingon pilot, they remained silent. The epitome of Vulcan composure.

The serving woman that opened the door for Ambassador Sranak was a different matter.

T'vei, a meek, older woman – gone grey-haired and ancient half a century ago – halted the delegation at the door. The sight of her swollen, skin puffed eyes and shockingly green flesh stopped them as much as her aged bones. Even her nose tinted green from burst capillaries. Her cheeks so pale, what little blood in her face stood out like a beacon.

She sniffed, keeping what little control she had, and stepped out of the doorway so the Ambassador and his staff could enter the building.

Vuron, as the Ambassador's security officer, entered last, securing the door behind him.

“Ambassador,” T'vei's voice somewhere between professional and plea. Her eyes glimmered.

“Yes, T'vei.”

“They're dead sir. They're all dead.”

Vuron swallowed, his mind searching, returning to the great hole in his self.

“Please, explain yourself.”

“The bondmates. All of our bondmates. My... my husband. They're all gone.”

The four other servants appeared from the darkened hallway. All showing the pain of grief. Sunken eyes. Squared or dropped shoulders. Wringing hands.

“Surely not all,” T'Phev, the Amabassador's secretary, protested.

Sranak turned between each of his staff members. Vuron could see just as plainly as he. They all suffered the same pain.

“What has happened,” T'vei pleaded.

“There must be a logical reason... ideas?”

“Some kind of forcefield?” T'Luminareth offered, a hopeful lilt to her voice. “Blocking us off from our mates?”

“To what purpose?” Vuron returned.

“Set us off balance. On the defensive. These Klingons are warlike in the extreme. If they sought a way to instigate-”

Sranak shook his head. “No. They have no knowledge of our touch-telepathy. Or any comprehension of how powerful the connection with our bondmates.”

“Assuming they did,” T'Sai, who served as their psychological and physiological doctor on this diplomatic mission. “How would they accomplish this block? They are barely capable of spaceflight. Their sciences are devoted to destruction. I have seen no evidence in research in psionics.”

Sranak nodded after a moment's consideration. “Then that leaves us with two rather distressing theories. A targeted attack on us, and thus our families. Or....”

The silence at the second option curled around the emptiness they all felt.

“Where was your bondmate?” Sranak asked T'vei.

“Vulcan. With our children.”

“T'Luminareth?”

“Serving on the Behemoth. Dry dock on Vulcan.”

He posed the same question to each individual in the room. Over and over the same answer. Vulcan. Vulcan. Vulcan. Home.

“I sensed...” Vuron responded, when Sranak turned to him. “I sensed falling. And lack of air.”

The others looked back and forth. Seeking confirmation. The long, empty stares.

“Screaming,” T'Sai added. It made sense she would have one of the stronger connections. “Minutes of screaming, and running, before....” She closed her eyes. Trying to remember. Not wanting to. “Possibly an evacuation?”

The statistical chance that all of their bondmates were _not_ stretched across the entire planet were astronomically low. 

“Planet-wide evacuation?”

T'vei finally did sob aloud. She covered her mouth, as if to take back the surge of emotion. No one would look at her. All in their own private hell.

“Mr. Vuron, please try to open an emergency subspace channel to Vulcan. We must ascertain the facts before we speculate farther.”

 


	2. Noisy Static

Vuron spent an hour sweeping for any feed to Vulcan. He kept his face blank while the Ambassador stared at him.

“Can you get nothing, Mr. Vuron? Have you attempted sending a signal?”

“Yes, sir. There is static. Noisy static.”

Sranak pinched the bridge of his nose. Exhaustion wore him down. For once, he looked all of his one hundred and seventy-five years.

He'd shed his official robes after dismissing the rest of his staff. Not that he would censor any information available, but Vuron felt certain that the older man would try to soften the blow, somehow.

“You are young, Mr. Vuron.”

The security officer felt his cheeks warm. He could think of no proper response to that.

“How long were you bonded with your mate?”

“Sixteen years.”

The older man nodded sagely.

“I was married one hundred, thirty-three years, seven months, two days.”

“Children?”

The Ambassador's eyes tightened a little. Almost a smile.

“My second granddaughter was born just before I left for this mission.”

Vuron nodded, understanding. More reason to find a connection.

“I think part of the problem is that there are multiple signals using the same frequency. Given enough time, I can filter out specific messages-”

Sranak made a cutting gesture with his hand. “There is little possibility that a single signal will give us the data we need. It would be a waste of resources.”

Vuron grit his teeth again.

The next logical thing to do would be to sweep all the star bases and outposts in the area, but he knew there would be no hope of contact there either, considering how scrambled all the signals were.

With the flip of his fingers, he switched his target to Starfleet. Sranak made no secret of his opinion of the organization. “Destined to be as short-lived as the humans that started it,” would perhaps be the kindest thing that could be said.

To the humans credit, however, he got an official on the comms straightaway. The little screen on his personal computer flicked from black sweeps to the picture of a woman in a gold uniform. He several rows of similarly garbed individuals behind her, each with their comm units in ears, talking rapid fire on their own computer consoles.

“Commander Smith,” answered the young looking woman. Beleaguered. Hair astray. Eyes wide. Skin ashen, even under the smoky brown of her natural color. “How can I be of assistance?”

Vuron blinked at the question. Not “Who are you?” or, “How may I direct your communiqué?” but “How can I help?” Their assumption of a disaster, rather than a targeted attack on Sranak's people, gained purchase.

“We can't get in contact with Vulcan,” he found himself answering. “Is there-”

“Are you safe?”

Ambassador Sranak watched him. He couldn't hear the other side of the conversation whispering through the bud in Vuron's ear, but he knew well enough to whom he spoke. There would be no one else he would use Earth Standard with.

“I am an officer with Ambassador Sranak. He and his staff are on Qo'noS for a treaty mission.”

The woman offered him a weak smile. “Thank god for that. Stay where you are. Do not return to Vulcan space. I am going to redirect you to non-emergency services.”

“Commander-”

“You have my condolences, sir.”

With that the screen flicked to black, an even tone of music tinkling through his earpiece. Put on hold. He found human's need for music while waiting to be equal parts irritating and soothing. In the past he would spend this time wondering if a separate selection of music would make the practice more tolerable. Of course, this would mean a separate selection based on species, and that would become quite cumbersome as-

“Ambassador Sranak,” an even younger man faced him now.

“No, I am Altern Vuron. Ambassador Sranak's security officer.” It felt petty introducing himself, under the circumstances. “What has happened to Vulcan.”

The man covered his wavering blue eyes with a hand.

“I'm... I'm so sorry. I thought they would have told you. Everyone... You are in a secure location, yes?”

Vuron nodded. “Yes.”

“I will queue up files for you then, so you can see.”

“See?”

Before he could ask more, several file transfer requests blocked the man's face. He approved them and minimized the progress bars so the small screen was once again filled with the man's concerned face.

“Everything is pretty much... settled now. Refugees are coming in, so don't give up hope yet, okay? Starfleet is doing everything we can to get... everyone back safe and sound. I'm sure we'll... find....”

That ragged hole in his chest tugged at him once again.

Meaningless platitudes. How often had this man, and the dozens in the room around him that Vuron could see, been offering some version of the same today?

Hope. Nearly more painful that someone tried to offer that small “olive branch,” as the humans put it. Especially when most likely every person this man had spoken with already knew the truth in their minds.

“How many?”

“How many?”

“How many refugees?”

Sranak stiffened at Vuron's back.

The human swallowed audibly. “Early estimates are between ten and a hundred thousand.”

“Quite the variation in estimations.”

He pinkened. “I'm sorry. That's as accurate as we can get right now. Everything is up in the air.”

“'Up in the air,'” Vuron quoted. What a strange phrase.

“Wow, I'm sorry, that was... I just... we're all having trouble just absorbing what's happened.”

_Shock. Of course._ An entire race in shock. 

Vuron nearly felt laughter bubbling up.

“We are working to keep communication open,” the human unsubtly hinted. “Is there anything we can do for the Ambassador for now?”

Vuron glanced at the older Vulcan. “No. I will share the data you've sent. I assume we can call back if there are further questions?”

“Of course. We are working to locate all offworld Vulcans and keep them appraised of what's going on. Starfleet will contact you on this frequency the moment we know anything more.”

“Thank you.”

In a strangely touching move, the man lifted his hand, with his fingers awkwardly split. Offering the traditional “Live Long and Prosper,” stammered out in a halting Vulcan dialect, he signed off.

 


	3. Refugees

 He let the Ambassador see the materials first, but he had an idea of how bad it must be.

Vuron stood outside the door to his private quarters, waiting further orders. Trying to ignore the odd passerby. Not even Vulcans were immune to curiosity. Especially considering-

“Mr. Vuron.”

He opened his door. Sranak sat before Vuron's personal computer screen. His narrow shoulders hiding whatever he saw.

“Yes, sir?”

“Gather everyone in the common room, please.”

He nodded.

Most of the higher ranking diplomatic staff were already gathered.

Sranak gave him a questioning look when he entered, glancing at the household personnel who followd. Vuron squared his shoulders at the decision. They might be little more than cooks, maids, and pilots, but they deserved to know. The older Vulcan glanced away. As close to acquiescence as he would allow.

“Have you been able to contact Vulcan?” T'Luminareth pipped in.

Sranak looked to the young altern.

“Channels throughout our system are garbled. It seems everyone,” _everyone still alive,_ “Is talking at once. However, I was able to get in contact with Starfleet.”

Surreptitious glances at the Ambassador revealed nothing.

“They sent a video,” Sranak relented. With a few clicks on the seldom used entertainment system, one of the files the human had sent popped up onto the large screen.

Their collective breaths released at the site of their desert home; the feed taken from some distant satellite. Sranak sped through the feed, showing a Romulan mining ship, corrupted by some unknown force, going into orbit. The destruction of so many Vulcan and Federation ships. The mining drill. He slowed the feed to realtime as a probe dropped from the mining ship.

Vuron held his breath as the probe fell. Sunlight flickered over its metal surfaces. In his mind, he heard the echo of a million voices screaming out for help.

Then.... And then.... Everything just.... collapsed.

Suddenly, no more home. No more people.

“The USS Enterprise succeeded in saving the elders,” Ambassador Sranak intoned. “There are other refugee ships, of course. Along with our colonies and other explorative vessels.”

“Starfleet estimates between ten and one hundred thousand of our people survive,” Vuron quoted without thought.

Sranak nodded.

“Our work here now is more important than ever. Without the potential resources and allies we gain here on Qo'noS, our future will be more uncertain. We will complete our mission here before returning to our people.”

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy so far? Well awesome! There's a lot more to come. I'm doing a bit of crossposting to get everything migrated over to Ao3, so I'll be updating very regularly for a while on this story (have over 30 chapters ready to go after a bit of cleaning up) and hopefully that'll also give be a bit of lead time on the new chapters to be finished up. Please feel free to kudos and review! Love to see what folks think of my... often uncommon characters.


End file.
